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Mountain of Words Write-A-Thon for Asheville Writers in the Schools and Community
Hi friends, a couple years ago, I participated in the first Mountain of Words write-a-thon for Asheville Writers in the Schools and Community. I’m very excited to have been asked to participate again this year. Here’s how it works: people sponsor me in any amount they choose (really, any little bit helps) and in return,…
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Elegy for a Failed Killer
His hand on the back of my neck makes everything you are irrelevant.
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Pillbug
“I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts into his megaphone, short fat body like a pillbug all rolled up and just as smart words like stagnant water, they have no substance no ability to hurt or to wash anything away “I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts garbled speech…
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Untitled, September 4 2015
This has been a trying week, with a lot of scary things happening close to home and around the world. I’ve been simultaneously trying to wrap my head around it all and to pretend that I don’t see the ugliness, and I keep coming back to this one thing that I simply cannot understand. With…
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The Latest Book
For those of you who are interested in such things, here’s the new book: a collection of some of my most controversial work, including “A Love Letter to Pat Robertson” and “Mother Whore and the Monsters on the Hill.” As always, thank you for your constant support. I appreciate you all more than I can…
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Claws
There’s something out there trying to get in. I can feel it scratching, metal claws against the walls torn away at the quick and still the fingers keep on coming. There’s something out there trying to let go Spidersilk arms and legs and black graffiti hair tangled up around the pages of the burning calendar. …
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Prom Queen [Not Autobiographical]
I never could have been the prom queen, perfect hair and teeth and nails, smiling sweetly for the cameras humble under my sash and crown and waiting for the crowd to blink and offer up the chance to pull the flask out from between my legs beneath the satin curtain of my dress. I was…
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Lost Dogs
This feels empty as if the dogs have all gone home and left us to our own devices, on our own to deal with the monsters and the maniacs hiding in the shadows and even with the lights all on, the television blaring comedy and news into our deconstructed brains, there is a silence and…
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A Love Letter to Pat Robertson
The lights are on in your great glass house but there’s nothing there to see. Your eyes are glued to the man next door, face pressed against his window in a gruesome caricature, bulging against the panes, lashes wet with lust and your palms nailed tight to the cross you wear like a brace to…
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April Fox 